Thanksgiving Eve has always been its own kind of holiday.
When we were fresh out of high school and stumbling into young adulthood, the night before Thanksgiving carried a magic all its own. Folks who scattered off to colleges, jobs, or whatever roads life had shoved them down suddenly came drifting back home. Old friends reappeared like ghosts you actually wanted to see. For one night, everybody was in town, everybody was young, and everybody had a cold drink in their hand.
I have a handful of regrets in my life, Jumbo-sized and well-earned. One of them sits squarely on a Thanksgiving Eve in the mid-1990s.
The day started like any other trading day. After the closing bell in the Bond Room, I headed downstairs to Ceres. The legendary watering hole tucked in the lobby of the Chicago Board of Trade.
A place known far and wide for drinks poured like they were trying to drown you. Four gin martinis later, and mind you, a Ceres martini is basically a chilled bucket of gin with a nod toward vermouth...
...I hopped on the Congress CTA back to my Oak Park apartment, feeling bulletproof and stupid.
Once home, I did the standard bachelor reset: shit, shower, shave, and then right back out the door. I grabbed a Blue Cab and headed straight to Madison Street, Forest Park’s own “Street of Dreams.”
If you were young, single, and breathing in those days, that stretch of bars was where Thanksgiving Eve turned into Thanksgiving Morning without warning.
I hit it hard with my crew. Hard enough that the memories come back in snapshots rather than video. Luck, grace, or the guardian angel assigned to idiots got me a ride home before I made things worse.
I woke up around 2 a.m., sitting in nothing but my underwear in my hunter green La-Z-Boy. The smell hit me first. The unmistakable, unforgiving stench of a burning Home Run Inn pizza smoldering in the oven. The kind of smell that says, “You are lucky your dumb ass didn’t take out the whole building.”
I cleaned up what was left of the pizza, dragged myself into bed, and passed out.
At 8:30 a.m., my answering machine kicked on. It was the Oldman. His voice had that tone, the one every son knows.
“Where the hell are you? The potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves.”
Another call at 8:40.
Another at 8:50.
And so on.
When I finally picked up around 9:30, he didn’t need to hear details. One listen to my voice and Don Shepley knew exactly what kind of night I’d had.
He was furious as he told me to stay home. He said he didn’t want to see me.
Now, with the clarity that only comes long after you need it, I understand what he was really saying: Get your fat ass over here right now, but I took him literally.
I stayed home. Ate a can of soup and a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Thanksgiving dinner. My Oldman didn’t speak to me again until the eve of the eve of Christmas that year.
I didn’t just blow Thanksgiving. I blew the whole damn Christmas season. I would give anything to get back that Clinton-era holiday stretch and get a do over with my daddy.
Ceres Café was the birthplace of a lot of bad decisions, but that one kicked me in the ribs.
I never got wasted on Thanksgiving Eve again.
This year, I am staying put with the Shepkids. Making homemade pizza and definitely not burning it. Laughing, eating, keeping it simple.
And if there is one thing I’d tell anyone heading out tonight, it is this: Be safe. Be happy and tell someone you love them.
Because nights come and go, but regret hangs around longer than any hangover.
